had lived, many of which were sufficient to make the hair of a respectable young lady like Augusta stand positively on end.  No doubt they were interesting to her in her capacity of a novelist; but, as they were all of the same colour, and as their tendency was absolutely to destroy any belief she might have in virtue as an inherent quality in highly developed woman or honour in man, Augusta soon wearied of these chroniques scandaleuses.  So she went forward, and was sitting looking at the “white horses” chasing each other across the watery plain, and reflecting upon what the condition of mind of those ladies whose histories she had recently heard would be if they knew that their most secret, and in some cases disgraceful and tragic, love affairs were the common talk of a dozen servants’ halls, when suddenly she was astonished by the appearance of a splendid official bearing a book.  At first, from the quantity of gold lace with which his uniform was adorned, Augusta took him to be the captain; but it presently transpired that he was only the chief steward.

“Please, Miss,” he said, touching his hat and holding out the book in his hand towards her, “the captain sends his compliments and wants to know if you are the young lady who wrote this.”

Augusta glanced at the work.  It was a copy of “Jemima’s Vow.”  Then she replied that she was the writer of it, and the steward vanished.

Later on in the morning came another surprise.  The gorgeous official again appeared, touched his cap, and said that the captain desired him to say that orders had been given to have her things moved to a cabin further aft.  At first Augusta demurred to this, not from any love of the lady’s-maid, but because she had a truly British objection to being ordered about.

“Captain’s orders, Miss,” said the man, touching his cap again; and she yielded.

Nor had she any cause to regret doing so; for, to her huge delight, she found herself moved into a charming deck-cabin on the starboard side of the vessel, some little way abaft the engine-room.  It was evidently an officer’s cabin, for there, over the head of the bed, was the picture of a young lady he adored, and also some neatly fitted shelves of books, a rack of telescopes, and other seaman-like contrivances.

“Am I to have this cabin to myself?” asked Augusta of the steward.

“Yes, Miss; those are the captain’s orders.  It is Mr. Jones’s cabin.  Mr. Jones is the second officer; but he has turned in with Mr. Thomas, the first officer, and given up the cabin to you.”

“I am sure it’s very kind of Mr. Jones,” murmured Augusta, not knowing what to make of this turn of fortune.  But surprises were not to end there.  A few minutes afterwards, just as she was leaving the cabin, a gentleman in uniform came up, in whom she recognized the captain.  He was accompanied by a pretty fair-haired woman very becomingly dressed.

“Excuse me; Miss Smithers, I believe?” he said, with a bow.